Shallow
by amor-remanet
Summary: Al Potter's been acting strange, and it's getting his siblings, cousins, friends, and boyfriend worried. ASxS, angst, WIP. WARNING: deals with both slash and eating disorders don't read if either squicks you.
1. Scorpius

**Disclaimer:** Everything is JKR's; I'm just playing with her toys, and I promise to put them back.

Scorpius Draco Vincent Malfoy is worried. Very worried, and the worst part is that he can't find exactly what specific thing is worrying him.

No, that's not true. It's Al that's worrying him, and he's very acutely aware of that fact. He just can't think of what, exactly, about Al keeps grating at his nerves and keeping him up at night.

That isn't true, either, though he very much wants it to be. This whole process would be so much easier if he didn't have a specific worry about Al; in that case, he could just brush this whole situation off as him being paranoid for the boy he loves. But there is a specific worry, and just thinking about it makes Scorpius feel horrible, invasive, and distrusting – even worse, it makes him feel shallow, which he strives not to be. After all, Father was shallow. Father picked his friends for blood, and jumped into things without a moment's thought, for the attraction of power, and he nearly died for it.

It's just that Al's weight is good cause for worry. Moreover, the rate at which he's been losing it is particularly distressing, especially after how last year ended. Al has been skinny for most of the time they've known each other. When they met for the first time, outside the Hogwarts Express, on the first day of first year, he'd been a right twig, especially compared to his Auror father and his athletic older brother. Scorpius really only notices this in retrospect, though; at the time, Al's eyes were what caught his attention the most.

Then, at the end of first year and during the beginning of second, Al had been bigger than normal, especially his own normal, but it had led right into a growth spurt, which had ended with him being skinny as ever. Not that bloody James Potter had made the whole process any easier on his poor brother. Until the growth spurt had happened, that arrogant, Gryffindor git had been full of new nicknames for his brother; his favorite had been, "chubby bunny," some mockery of how their mum apparently called Al her, "honey bunny." Then Al's weight had gotten an even distribution and James, blessedly, hadn't had anything to mock. The same rule of ending his growth spurts as a gangly, scrawny little thing had held true when he'd finally stopped growing. Once his height had stabilized, his weight followed suit, settling on, "thin, but not disturbingly so."

And then OWLs had come and been a stressful time for everyone, especially Al, who was so sensitive. You weren't supposed to be sensitive in Slytherin, but here he was: the lone Slytherin who wasn't afraid to cry when other people were in the room. At least, that was one reading of it. Another reading was that he just couldn't help his feelings, and the end result was the same: he'd needed comforting during OWLs, just to get through them without breaking down. Naturally, he'd gotten said comfort from Scorpius… and from Chocolate Frogs, and Peppermint Toads, and large slabs of Honeyduke's finest, and, on more than one occasion, various sweets and cakes from the House Elves. By the end of term, his favorite pair of trousers didn't fit, which hardly helped his mood.

Scorpius had needed to come back for him before the carriages to the train left; he'd been lying on his bed, taking deep breaths, and attempting to squeeze himself into the trousers, which were having none of it.

"Bloody,_buggering Merlin_!" Al groaned, before a session of labored panting. "Fucking _hell_, and these were from _Aunt Fleur_. She got them in _Paris_, and I told her I'd wear them tonight…"  
"Al, she'll understand if you wear something else. Not everything fits all the time-"  
"But I _promised_…" There it had been again. Al's sweet, nigh on pathological, and almost Hufflepuff-esque need to keep promised. "'sides, it's all my fault I can't wear them. Carrying on like I did, putting on bloody four-and-a-half kilos… don't deserve these bloody trousers…"

With that, Al inhaled deeply, held his stomach in, and began another frantic round of trying to squeeze the trousers shut. Scorpius sighed and sat down next to his manically writhing boyfriend. The cause was a lost one without intervention: those damn trousers only fit Al right if he was on the thin end of his normal; he'd come back to school from Christmas hols this year with the button barely staying put, and he hadn't even eaten that much. Without wasting a second, Scorpius pointed his wand at the straining waistband and murmured the incantation for an Extending Spell. It wasn't particularly potent, but it worked quite spectacularly: Al not only got his trousers fashioned, but they fit just as they had before his OWLs and they rather effectively disguised the fact that he'd developed softer sides and a noticeable curve in his midsection. He sighed in relief.

"Knew there was a reason I loved you," he teased, kissing Scorpius on the cheek.

That hadn't been the end of it, though. He'd eaten a good deal of sweets on the train, and he'd mentioned how his Gran was making a huge meal for everyone who was coming home. The trousers had been straining to hold their newly expanded size when Al had given Scorpius his goodbye hug, and, even now, Scorpius doesn't want to think of what happened to them over Al's supper.

He knows what happened to Al afterward, though: he didn't stop. One owl he'd sent had had Chocolate Frog prints on it, another had the remnants of some of his Gran's cooking, and, when they met in London to have lunch about two weeks after school had let out for summer, it looked as though Al had had more than his 'bloody four-and-a-half kilos' to complain about. His face had filled out into a more cherubic look, and his jeans, obviously transfigured, were visibly strained against his swollen stomach and expanding arse; he kept pulling his t-shirt to no avail. At lunch, he had soup, a salad, an entrée, dessert, and a third of Scorpius's food – then he'd demanded that they go up Diagon Alley to get something else at Fortescue's. And, through it all, he'd denied that anything was wrong.

Something_was_ wrong, though. And Scorpius had had to find it out from a_Witch Weekly_ article written by none other than the fire-breathing harpy from Hell, Rita Skeeter, herself. "Trouble In Paradise Takes Toll on Harry Potter's Second Son: Is Albus Potter's overeating a cry for help during his parents' strife?" Moreover, Al hadn't even sent him the article; Maddie Boot-Goldstein, one of Al's Ravenclaw friends, had sent it, with an attached owl that read, "Rosie and I have tried. Lily's tried. He won't talk to any of us about any of it, has he talked to you?"

For point of fact, Al _hadn't_ talked to Scorpius, which had been the most upsetting thing in all this. Scorpius didn't care if Al was skinny, or fat, or any of that. He just wanted Al to talk to him, which the sneaky little bastard seemed oddly loath to do. He'd sent owls, of course, but they'd been vague about what Scorpius considered important and had focused intently on talking about trivial things. Then Al had met him at King's Cross looking like his old self, which had been notably thinner than their last meeting. And he hadn't been any taller, which debunked the, "It's just leading up to a growth spurt" theory. (Scorpius almost protested before thinking better of it; having more Al to hug after a summer apart wouldn't have upset him any.)

Then he'd actively turned down a present of Honeyduke's chocolate. He'd fought Scorpius for a full ten minutes to avoid taking the damn slab of candy, and his only offered explanation had been, "I can't. I'm on a diet."

"Just take it, you prat," Scorpius joked, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "You'll always be beautiful to me, so what's the harm in it?"  
"I'm on a _diet_," Al insisted, "which means that I can't _eat_it. And if it's anywhere near me, I'll eat it."  
"And there's no problem with that-"  
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Then I turned into a sodding balloon-"  
"You did _not_-"  
"I most certainly _did_, and you _know_ it. Made a bloody pig of myself at lunch with you that day, and during OWLs, and after OWLs – I've only been able to wear Aunt Fleur's trousers again for a week, maybe ten days. I'll just have you know that."  
"Al… it doesn't matter to me. I just want you to be _happy_-"  
"Then keep the bloody chocolate!"

He was the same way about the food at the welcoming feast that evening.

He went out for Quidditch shortly thereafter, even though he famously dislikes playing it. He even made Seeker, though his enthusiasm for it was clearly, to Scorpius at least, feigned.

And now… now, he sits at the lunch table, only drinking water and hardly touching his food, and acting like this is no big deal. When Scorpius tries to impress some vegetables on him, he just says that he isn't hungry. He's thinner now, too. It's happened slowly, all while Scorpius has been around him, and, so, it's been harder to see, but it's there. His jaw is harder, his collarbone more defined; the bones in his wrists are quite evident, especially when he writes so agitatedly, as he's doing right this instant. Scorpius hasn't seen him this thin since around Christmas, third year, and he'd been ill then, so he'd had an excuse.

"Al, at least have an apple before Transfiguration," Scorpius attempts to press. "It's rigorous, and you'll need your strength."  
"I'll get it at supper," Al sighs, folding up the Ancient Runes textbook he'd been working out of. "'m not hungry right now."  
"But you've hardly eaten anything-"  
Al cuts Scorpius off with a chaste kiss to the lips, followed by a smile. "Honestly, Scorp. I'll be fine."

Still smiling, he gets up and leaves, as though nothing happened whatsoever. At least the Halloween Feast is in a few days. If Al doesn't eat then, then Scorpius will know that something's truly wrong.

* * *

Al makes a point of overeating at the Halloween Feast. After McGonagall's speech, he calls for a pumpkin juice toast, between Scorpius and the other boys in their year – Gavin Nott, Brody Harper, and Damien Pucey. He calls for a toast to travesty, horror, debauchery, and the ending of his diet, which he made sure that all of them knew he'd embarked on. After that formality is handled, he helps himself to everything. As much as he doesn't want to eat it, he has to: Scorpius and Gavin are both getting suspicious of him, and that goes without mentioning that Lily, Rosie, Maddie, Tommy, Logan, and everyone else he's related to sees some problem with his plan to lose weight. 

The only exceptions had been Dad and James. Even Aunt Fleur had seen him at his worst, watch him burst the button off her trousers at Gran's welcome home dinner, and she'd still told him that everything was fine. Dad had gotten so enraged over Rita Skeeter's article, but he calmed down once Al had had initial success. James, though, didn't stop. By the end of July, Al had lost nearly eight kilos from his highest point, and James still saw fit to pinch his extra flab (especially around his waistline) and sneer at him. He'd even done it at King's Cross, after Al had lost another eight-and-a-half kilos. Al had tried out for the Slytherin team, and made it, and all it had earned him from James was a pinch of the stomach (which had lost another three-and-a-half kilos since school had started) and a smirking remark about how Seekers were meant to be skinny.

Merlin, it was hard enough knowing that, as Harry Potter's gay, Slytherin second son who had no interest in either Quidditch or being an Auror, he'd never be good enough for anyone. Why did James have to rub in the fact that he was _fat_, too? Granted, at just barely under sixty kilos, Al actually weighed less than had been his normal weight last year – hell, he weighed less than James, even though James was half-a-foot taller and Al had weighed five-and-a-half kilos more than he did over the summer – but that didn't stop James. None of it stopped him, and with good reason. Whatever the comparative weights said, he could still grab fat at various places on Al's person, and that had meant that Al was still fat.

But everyone else takes issue with what Al's done to improve himself, and so he makes a point of overeating. It's the same principle he applies when eating at Gran's: help yourself to everything, don't hold back, and let yourself have everything you normally wouldn't eat… but don't make plans for after supper. There's only one place he can go after a meal like this.

Regardless of what they all think, there's still more work to do.


	2. Albus

The bathroom floor is harsh, arctic cold, and Al can feel it through the thin fabric of his favorite trousers, the ones from Aunt Fleur. The U-bend is even colder than the floor, but, then again, Myrtle's still hanging around, and ghosts do tend to do that. Al has no idea why she hasn't left yet, even though he asked her politely to please do so; he even bothered to tell her that she'd regret it if she stayed, that she wouldn't like what he was there to do. But, as he should've expected, that had only served to make her insufferably curious. Now, every time she gasps, he wants to say, "I told you so," but he knows better than to hurt Myrtle's feelings. After all, she's sensitive, like he is, and, as annoying as she can sometimes be, Myrtle understands things, most things anyway.

This thing, though, she doesn't understand. She further doesn't understand why Al _has_ to do it. He tried to explain it to her once, nearer the start of term, but she didn't follow then, and she likely won't follow now. No one understands it. Not her, not Rosie, not Lily, not Maddie – not even Scorpius understands why Al needs to go hungry, or why he needs to vomit when he eats too much, or any of it. But they have to trust, eventually, that all of Al's efforts will be worth it. It escapes him how they can be so close-minded about this. Maybe Scorpius hasn't ever made direct comments about his weight, but Al knows that he's thought about it. How can he not think about it? It must be Hell for him, snogging a beached whale and having to lie all the time about how "beautiful" Al is. Then Rose and Lily have no room saying _anything_. They've both as good as called Al fat before.

Like on the train home from school at the end of last year. After a nap, Al had needed to stretch his legs, and he'd taken a few sweets with him for the walk. They hadn't _meant_ anything – they were just sweets. So what if there were a few of them (meaning two slabs of Honeyduke's best, a bag of Peppermint Toads, and a Cauldron Cake)? Al hadn't really been thinking about how much there was; just that he was hungry, and depressed, and his favorite sweets eliminated both problems. Besides, Scorpius had fixed his trousers for him. No worries.

James saw things differently. He always did.

They'd met by chance entirely, coming out of their compartment at almost the same time and intersecting paths with each other by random happenstance. James's eyes narrowed when he saw the sweets in Al's hands.

"Don't you think you've had _enough_?" he sneered.

"But, I – I was hungry-"

"Have an apple! Merlin, Al, I hope you weren't planning on eating at Gran's tonight."

"Well, I was, but… but, I guess – depends on how hungry-"

"You bloody well shouldn't _be_ hungry, at this point! I bet you bought out half the sweet cart!"

"D-d-did not-"

"I mean, really! In case you _haven't_ noticed, your trousers from Aunt Fleur are _barely_ closed."

Al hadn't noticed, actually. He hadn't felt the need to look. But, at James's admonition of him, he peered down to find that the waistband of his trousers had grown incredibly strained against his stomach, some of which was now pressing over top of its fabric prison. …But the magic couldn't have worn off! And he hadn't eaten _that_ much! How on Earth-

Al gasped in pain as he felt James pinch his side.

"_James_-" he whined.

"Look at that," James huffed. "This was hanging out there, Al. You're going to bloody well bust out of these trousers, you realize."

"Stop it-"

"Why should I? These were a gift, you little ingrate, and they're ready to split! Because of _you_-"

"James, please-"

"'James, _please_!' Listen to yourself, Al! And look at yourself! Honestly, you're such a _Slytherin_, trying to blame me for this when you're the one who can't bloody control himself-"

"Because I'm _hungry_-"

"Oi!" Lily's voice piped up.

Al and James looked back in unison, and not a second too soon; honestly, Al hadn't ever been more pleased to see his little sister. He was acutely aware of the fact that his eyes had started to mist over, and the less that James saw of that, the better. As it stood, Al was already a fat, gay Slytherin. He couldn't be a bloody crybaby as well. Like James always liked to say, one more demerit, and Al would have to turn in his Potter family membership – and his Weasley family membership. Luckily, though, Lily and Rose had stuck their heads into the corridor just and time.

"James," Rose sighed, shaking her mass of bushy, brown hair. "Cut it out. Some people are trying to have civilized conversations-"

"Yes, we are, thank you, Rosie," James huffed. "You and Lily are talking about your girly rubbish, and Al and I are having a brotherly discussion."

"Actually, it looks like you're being a bully."

"Oh, here it is _again_. I look out for my baby brother, so, clearly, I'm a bully."

"Yeah," Lily retorted, rolling her eyes. "They way you 'look out for him,' you are."

"What? Pointing out that he's busting out of his bloody trousers is being a bully?"

"Actually," Rose said dryly, "yes. It is."

"But I've got his best interests at heart! He _is_ busting out of his bloody trousers!"

"That notwithstanding-"

"Rosie, he's half-a-foot shorter than I am, and he'll probably outweigh me by the end of the week."

Although this would later turn out to be very true, Al still protested, "No, I won't, James!"

"You will, and you know it, the way that you've been eating-"

"I'll be done after these sweets, I swear it!"

"No, you won't," James hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "You _know_ that those won't be it, and don't even try to deny it because you _know_ I'm right. You've been losing it ever since you got sorted into Slytherin-"

"James, honestly! This is it, I swear, I only had a bit-"

"Sure you did! If by 'bit,' you mean completely engorging yourself." He pinched hard on the roll of fat he was still holding. "Here's a little bet for you: prove me wrong. You weigh less than I do at the end of the week, and I'll back off. But if you lose, I will make your life _Hell_."

"Yeah, because you totally don't do that already," Lily huffed.

James didn't respond to that, but gave Al one of his Looks and sulked off in the other direction. Although Al didn't know it at the time, James had a plan in mind – a plan so low and vile that even a Death Eater would've questioned its morality. By the end of the week, he would've outweighed James by five kilos, with almost another three added on before Al would even think to stop himself.

But, now, he only felt as though this cause were lost and slumped, accordingly, against the wall by Rosie and Lily's compartment door and stared blankly down at his stomach. Sure, it had never been _flat_, but it had never been this bad, either. It was visibly round and soft, and the trousers' waistband just seemed to cut in tighter by the second. And, to think – just a month ago, he'd been able to fit into these trousers with no bloody problems. A month ago, the fact that he wasn't muscular hadn't mattered because at least he hadn't been fat. A month ago, James had only turned to more tired methods of mocking him – Slytherin, gay, crybaby – things that Al couldn't ignore, but that he didn't get so upset about. A month ago, the only attention drawn to his stomach had been drawn there because Scorpius had seen fit to tickle him.

Biting his lip to keep from crying, Al briefly rested a hand on his stomach (it was far softer than he remembered), and then he promptly proceeded to start shoveling the bloody chocolate down again. It was then that Maddie stuck her head out of the next compartment, followed closely by one, Tommy Davies.

"We heard," Maddie commented with an obviously forced lightness in her tone. "The fight, I mean."

Al made an indistinct, but very sad, noise, and had another piece of the chocolate.

"Kinda missed the end of it, though?" Tommy always talked like everything was a question. "What'd James say before he left?"

"Bet Al that he'll weigh more than him – him meaning James," Rose explained, "by the end of the week."

"He did _not_!" Maddie gasped. She looked to Al for a sign and, tearfully, he nodded. "Oh my – that _bastard_."

"Tell me about it," Lily huffed. "That said, though – Al? Eating your Honeyduke's like that isn't going to help."

Al had already started opening the second slab of Honeyduke's and replied, through a mouthful of chocolate, "'eesafuckin'pillock."

"That aside, Al," Rosie sighed, "compulsive overeating isn't the best solution when you want to weigh _less_ than James."

"Especially since this is James," Maddie added, "so he'll no doubt have some scheme or other with which to beat you."

Al swallowed before speaking again. "I've got time. Saturday's a while off yet."

"Yeah, it _is_," Lily said cautiously, "but if Aunt Fleur's trousers are any indication-"

"Shut _up_," Al pleaded, shoving another piece of chocolate into his mouth.

Maddie sighed and Al knew immediately what was coming: another episode of, "Maddie Boot-Goldstein Tells It As It Is." Pushing her long, brown fringe back behind her ears, she moved to stand in front of Al and motioned for eye contact. Begrudgingly, he gave it to her. …She had her hands on her hips. Not a good sign.

"Listen to me, Al," she said simply. "You're one of my best mates, I trust you with my life, and I'd never intentionally hurt you. I don't care what you look like, or if you're fat, or skinny, or whatever, but, Merlin's pants, take care of yourself. So you gained weight during OWLs – big deal; it could've happened to anybody. So you're going to gain more, by the looks of it – again, big deal, as long as you're happy. But I know you, and, right now? You're not at all happy. So you've got two options: you can either love yourself as you are, get happy, and gain as much weight as you want, or you can address what's making you unhappy, handle it like an adult, and stop stuffing yourself on rubbish to be happy. Or continue to be miserable, which I am _not_ going to allow."

"Nor am I," Rosie said softly.

"I won't either," Lily huffed.

"Either way," Maddie concluded, "you probably _will_ want to change your trousers. I have no idea how you can breathe in those."

Al swallowed again and said bluntly, "Promised Aunt Fleur I'd wear these tonight, and 'm _gonna_ wear them tonight."

He couldn't have been expected to know then that he'd bust the button of the trousers off at Gran's welcome home supper that night, or that, at the end of the week, James would have him humiliated yet again. He'd protest the scale, say that it was clearly bewitched, and James would dare him to get the trousers on and, in so doing, prove it. He'd squeeze them over his thighs with difficulty and find the flaps inches apart, exposing his pale, fleshy stomach and where the elastic waistband of his pants cut sharply into it. He'd try them around his waist, and hips; he'd try them under where he'd have a noticeable roll of belly fat; he'd try them sucking his stomach in with all his might.

Finally, after fifteen minutes of writhing, struggling, and grunting, he'd be on his back and sucking in all his disgusting flesh, and the button would go in. Slowly, the zipper would come up, fighting his new girth the whole way. The trousers would be uncomfortable, and there'd be enough fat spilling over the waistband that his t-shirt would fail to conceal it – but the trousers would be on. They'd be on and James would be wrong… until Gran gave Al more food and the button bloody well burst off again.

It's almost strange, now, having to wear a belt with them. Feeling increasing free space between his skin and the fabric. Knowing that he's come so far, but that he has so far left to go. He's been here, in Myrtle's loo, for nearly an hour, he's flushed the toilet five times, and he still isn't done yet.

Hand trembling, he picks his wand up off the floor and points it at his stomach. Weakly, he murmurs the incantation for the Vomiting Hex; he sets his wand down before he starts retching. Myrtle gasps again, even though she's already seen it. When he looks up from this round, his entire body's shaking, and Myrtle's waiting for him, her face halfway between reproaching him and sympathizing with him.

"You really should go to the Hospital Wing, you know," she advises softly.

"What?" Al huffs. "And explain to Pomfrey that I made myself sick on purpose? Do you have _any_ idea what they'd do to me?"

"No. But, from the looks of it, you probably need them to do something."

It's so hard to be mad at her when she's so damn sweet, but she's not even trying to understand.

"You really don't look well at all, you know."

"Really, Myrtle? I've just spent an hour _vomiting_. So surprised to know that I do not look well."

"Well, there's no reason to be cruel. I was only being honest." She pauses, looks him over. "You're so skinny. It's really rather frightening."

"Well, if I'm skinny, then I'm hardly skinny enough-"

"How much weight, exactly, have you lost since term started?"

"Not nearly enough."

"_How_ much? You can tell me, remember? My lips are sealed, and it isn't like anyone would want to listen to me anyway."

"_Fine_," Al snaps. Pausing, he takes a few deep breaths before replying, "Nearly seven kilos. As I said, not enough."

"How on Earth can you-"

"A Seeker has to be _skinny_, Myrtle!"

"Your brother's hardly what I'd call _skinny_. I've seen him, you know-"

"In the Prefects' bathroom, I _know_! And he's tall, he's lean-"

"And you're too skinny-"

"I am _not_!" For how much he's raising his voice, Al is so glad that he thought to cast a Silencing Charm on the loo first. He's less so for the tears that have started to come down his cheeks. "I'm not, so I haven't eaten. But people noticed that, so I have to do _this_ instead!"

She pauses again, and her voice is more mournful when she asks, "How much longer?"

He considers for a moment, but answers, "Until I'm satisfied."

"I'm not leaving-"

"Suit yourself-"

"Something could happen to you-"

"Unlikely-"

"And then you'd _need_ me."

He shrugs. She settles in to watch, and he picks up his wand.


	3. Maddie

Madeline Boot-Goldstein is no stranger to odd behavior, but, then again, when one of your dads is an actor, the other is a severely neurotic arithmancer, your mum is a mind healer, and your best mates are a budding social activist, a lovable klutz, and Al Potter (and, by extension, Scorpius Malfoy), well. You have to get used to strange behavior.

This doesn't mean, though, that you have to like it, and, in this case, Maddie most certainly doesn't. Normally, Al's little quirks are really quite endearing. The way he blushes when someone compliments him, the way he can't do anything if he doesn't know where his sixteenth birthday present from Scorpius is (which Maddie honestly can't blame him for, since, apparently, the necklace and scorpion charm claim him as Scorpius's forever), the way he can fall asleep absolutely anywhere, the way he gets personally offended when anyone maligns penguins – everything he does is just an adorable facet of what makes him Al Potter. His most recent quirks, though, are difficult to get enthused about, and his enthusiasm for them is more than a little off-putting.

He has, it would seem, developed a new love of wearing trousers and shirts that are visibly too big for him. Aside from the fact that he appears to be concealing something, these are all clothes that fit or were too small for him just a few months ago. Feels like ages ago, really, when his other new behaviors are taken into account. Everyone knows that he loves sweets – they were, after all, what originally made him get chubby – but, since term started, he's almost always turned them down. Fair enough, he was "on a diet" until two weeks ago, but, since then, Maddie's only seen Al near sweets twice. Once was after class last weekend, when he stomached half a Honeyduke's bar because Tommy practically begged to eat it. He disappeared into the loo not five minutes afterward.

That's another thing! Scorpius says (vociferously and _ad nauseam_) that Al hardly eats anything at most meals, that the only meat he'll touch is chicken, and that he's outright eliminated dairy from his diet. Maddie's even managed to notice this; the Ravenclaw table's proximity to the Slytherin table lets her watch without Al getting too suspicious. About the only meal after which he doesn't run to the loo is breakfast, which usually amounts to an apple, at most.

Granted, there are some meals where this doesn't quite hold true. At the Three Broomsticks last weekend, he ate more than anybody and nabbed most of Tommy's bag of peppermint mice – but he ate everything slowly, and no one could find him after they got back. After hearing from one of her second years that there'd been a sick boy in Moaning Myrtle's loo, Maddie got Rose and they tried their damndest to make the ghost talk. Unfortunately, even the joint powers of two prefects couldn't technically command Myrtle to do anything, and all she said was that Al had come by for a chat. She was lying out her ears, but Maddie and Rose had to admit a temporary defeat.

Now in the library, Maddie sighs and agitatedly taps her quill on her parchment. She, Rose, Scorpius, and Tommy have been trying to pinpoint all of Al's new mannerisms for an hour, with Maddie taking her usual extensive notes, and she still feels like they're missing something. She's written everything down, she's made people repeat offhand thoughts just to get them down, but she still must be missing something. There has to be something they're missing – anything. All the symptoms are shaping up into something, but nothing that any of them know.

The only distinct shape they can really find is Al's: his wrists are visibly bony, and his elbows hurt when jammed into vital organs, something Tommy learned the hard way when harassing him to eat the damn Honeyduke's. Everything about him seems so transient, like there's no way that it can last, but, at the same time, the acuteness of his angles makes everything so much more visible. The hints of his body that his clothes afford show a much-diminished waist, and Scorpius has needlessly affirmed for everyone that Al's lighter.

"I still say that Myrtle was putting us on," Rosie huffs, sinking into her chair.

"Really, Rosie?" Scorpius sighs. "Honestly. Your mother was the most brilliant witch in her year?"

"Shut it, Scorpius." She narrows her eyes at him, dangerously, or what she probably wants to think is dangerously. "I don't notice _you_ giving any suggestions as to what's wrong with him."

"Because I'm in the dark as much as you are!"

"You_love _him so much, you care about him so much, you spend so much more _time_ with him than the rest of us – how can you not have some kind of extra _ideas_?"

"Do you _really_ think that he wants to talk about this? Have you even _tried_ talking to him about this? Do you want to see the mess firsthand, or should I just tell you about it-"

"Rosie, Scorp," Lily interjects softly. "This really isn't the time, okay?"

"No, Lily," Rosie snaps, not even bothering to think about the volume of her voice. "It's not okay. It's not okay that the ever-intelligent Scorpius Malfoy, who spends _so much time_ with_our_ relative somehow manages to not have any more ideas-"

"_Rosie_. No one has ideas. Al's my brother and I have no bloody clue what's wrong with him. Why? Because he's not talking to anybody about it. So don't go at Scorp for not having ideas."

"Please don't get us thrown out," Hugo practically whimpers.

"It could be a parasite?" Tommy offers hopefully.

"Can't be," Maddie retorts knowledgably. "There'd be other symptoms."

"Like_what_?"

"Well, that'd depend on the kind of parasite, but he'd be exhausted-"

"He_is_ exhausted! Last Wednesday – last Wednesday, at dinner, when he sat at Ravenclaw's table by mistake, and he was practically falling asleep on you before Scorpius came and-"

"That was after _Quidditch practice_, Davies," Scorpius huffs. "The way he pushes himself at that stupid sport, it's no wonder he did that."

"At least he's _trying_," Rosie snorts.

"That notwithstanding," Maddie continues. "He'd have a fever, he'd have – there'd be other things going on, and-"

"And if we're not at the pitch in time for his game," Lily points out in a last-ditch effort to calm them all down, "he's going to murder all of us."

Of course, everybody knows she's right. Al has to have an apparent fervor about Quidditch, otherwise he looks suspicious, to say the least. You don't just go from skipping every match to read Muggle science fiction, or snog your boyfriend, or debate silly things with your female best mate to being the star Seeker of Slytherin without saying _something_. The fact that Gavin Nott is the Captain this year doesn't help, either. He and Al may not be best friends, but they're friendly enough, and it'll look like a case of friends putting friends on the team if Al doesn't live up to the position. It'll look even worse if he doesn't live up to all the hype that Gavin, Damien Pucey, and Hugo have been building up – and the worst part will be if anyone points out that Hugo got magically suspended by his ankle by a group of boys in his year, for daring to say that Al was as good a Seeker as James. Even if Al is Hugo's cousin just as much as James, it's against some unwritten rule for a Gryffindor to say anything positive about a Slytherin when Gryffindor victory is on the line.

If she had to pick the one new mannerism that she likes the least in Al, Maddie would have to pick this ruddy Quidditch thing. One of the things they bonded over early on was how much they hated that stupid sport, for their different reasons. Maddie hated it because it was a pointless spectacle that only served to make some people look better than other people, even though luck was a huge factor in everything; Al hated it because his family had given him a Quidditch hangover by the time he was seven. Maybe it's escaped the notice of most of Hogwarts, but the fact that he went from only reading what happened to his mum's team (and, at that, only when Lily said that something big had happened) to knowledgably ranting for fifteen bloody minutes about who was a better Seeker, Viktor Krum or "Dangerous" Dai Llewellyn, is inhumanly worrisome, in Maddie's book.

The weather today, though – that isn't even the least bit concerning. For being November, it's surprisingly sunny and, while not warm per se, it isn't freezing. Al is, by his own admission, just glad that it's not raining like it has been for the past two weeks. Mothering isn't normally Maddie's style, but she can't help but think that, if it were raining, she'd do anything in her power to keep Al from playing. With how skinny is and how ill he'd get in the cold and rain – she'd stun the little prat if she had to, just to keep him safe. But he got his good playing weather, so there isn't any need to fear about that. There's need to worry about something, though, or so Maddie thinks as she follows Lily, Rosie, Scorpius, Tommy, and Hugo into the stands to wherever they had Logan stake out seats. Once they've settled in, she leans forward, teetering dangerously on the edge of her seat, expectantly waiting for the players to file in like tiny insects coming out of a nest.

When they do, she picks out Al immediately, and it's hard not to see him, since everyone else on the Slytherin team is a few inches taller and a good deal more physically substantial than he is. Even the Beaters, Higgs and Urquhart, are bigger than he is and they're third years. Maddie keeps focused on the action while Gavin and James Potter come to centerfield and shake hands. She hears the whistle blow and watches intently as players mount their brooms and kick off. She makes sure that she's paying attention while Al bobs and weaves through the other players and dodges Bludgers, looking for that ruddy Snitch. But it isn't long until Maddie remembers when this started instead.

An easy estimate would place the root of these problems in September, when Al came back to school, thin again but refusing to eat anything, especially not anything he liked. Maddie has no time to suffer easy estimates. By her reckoning, Al's problems truly started back around last Christmas: OWLs were coming, classes were stressful, his parents were fighting, his uncles weren't helping, Lily had gotten involved (as involved as third years could get) with that vile Robert Hargreaves, the Muggleborn fifth-year who wanted to use her as an in to her dad – and, more importantly to Maddie's concerns, Al's weight gain started. The thing is, they should've seen it coming. They _all_ should've seen the initial gain, and these present problems, coming: Al was ill just before the Christmas hols, so he'd lost weight from not eating, and, given how his Gran is, they should've expected pampering and overeating, which was exactly what he got. Even Al admitted freely that Gran Weasley had barely left him alone, and that she hadn't let him leave Christmas supper until he'd had thirds of everything.

Not that this was weird. The Christmas hols have always been troublesome for everybody, at least in Maddie's experience – the sheer number of times she's heard her actor dad complain about high-calorie food and how he won't be able to fit in his costumes is ludicrous on its own. And, to be fair, Al certainly falls into the subset of "everyone." Nevertheless, his weight gain hadn't been a problem then. All his clothes still fit, and even his trousers from his Aunt Fleur had forgiven the fact that he was a bit softer around the middle – but then he apparently didn't stop overeating. It wasn't like he ate that much more in public, or anywhere that Maddie saw – no one even noticed that he was gaining weight for a while. Maddie didn't notice anything at all, until Valentine's Day came and a massive House Elf mishap made life complicated.

For no apparent reason, around that time, clothes wound up with the wrong people all across the castle. For example, Maddie wound up with Scorpius's clothes, while he wound up with Logan Wood's; her clothes turned up with Tommy (who took to wearing her skirt a bit too enthusiastically), and some third-year Hufflepuff girl wound up with Logan's. Al wound up switched with Rosie, which was rather problematic, as she was four inches taller and a bit more streamlined than her cousin. Since it had been a Saturday when Maddie noticed, there hadn't been a need for the dress code, and Al was forced into Rosie's jeans and a t-shirt of hers, both of which were far too small and were impossibly unforgiving towards his softened sides and bigger middle. He had to roll up the bottoms of the jeans because the legs were far too long, while smallish love handles and a pouching tummy stuck out over the waistband and out from under the shirt, since both it and the jeans were too small. Maddie noticed all of this immediately when he joined her in the library to work on their project for Ancient Runes.

"Been hitting the Honeyduke's lately, Albie?" she teased, giving him an affectionate smile.

Wrinkling his brow, he eyed her with an odd mix of hurt, irritation, and suspicion. "So you're the one who got Scorp's clothes," he huffed, rummaging through his bag and purposefully avoiding her eyes.

"Bet I did – let him know later that he has amazing taste in trousers, and amusing taste in pants. Though I suppose you already knew that."

"Maybe I do." He still wasn't looking at her.

"So, whose clothes did you get? Some second year's?"

"Rosie's. And don't remind me. I know I look ridiculous, but so does she, so it's not completely horrible." He paused and stared intently at the table before returning to his bag and adding on, "She looks better in mine, though. Which is completely sodding unfair, if you ask me."

"Well, the tightness of hers is rather unflattering on you, which returns us to my original question: have you been hitting the Honeyduke's recently?"

"I gained a kilo or two-"

"Looks like a bit more than that, Al."

"_At most three_, around Christmas." He huffed matter-of-factly, "Which is fine, because Gran says that I was too skinny then anyway."

"Your Gran would say that Lizzie Goyle is too skinny," Maddie pointed out simply.

"Yeah, well, _I_ actually _was_ too skinny, so it's _fine_. It isn't a huge deal."

"Those jeans disagree." Smirking, she poked him in the stomach; he made a whining noise of disapproval and lightly smacked her hand away.

"Yeah, well, that's because they're _Rosie's_." Shaking his unruly dark hair out of his face, he sat down opposite her and opened his textbook. "It's not my fault she's so bloody tall and so_fucking_ skinny, or that she plays Quidditch, so it doesn't hurt her when Gran makes her take seconds. Probably won't even matter when she quits the team next year because she takes after Uncle _Ron_. So she's always going to have tiny jeans, and that _isn't_ my fault."

"You can only blame so much on the jeans, Al."

"I can blame bloody _everything_ on the jeans because it's _all their fault_!" Noticing that he'd raised his voice, and gotten himself rather worked up, he paused, took a few deep breaths, and then sighed, "It's really nothing, Maddie. I mean it. Now can we _please_ just do this project?"

His tone of voice said that he didn't believe himself, and Maddie didn't buy a word of what he said either. She'd poke him in the stomach more than a few more times throughout the rest of that day, and she lost count of how many times he said, "It's just a couple of kilos" or, "It's honestly nothing." She wishes now that she hadn't ribbed him so much about how he'd put on weight – but how was she supposed to know? She's like that with everyone who matters to her, and it's just a way to say, "I love you." She points out all the so-called flaws and all the apparent eccentricities of all the people she loves because she loves said "flaws" and "eccentricities" the best of everything about them. And now she's gone and messed up Al – her best mate ever, the first person she told about her crushes on Rosie and Allison MacMillan, the only person she trusted with the knowledge that all three of her parents (even the mind healer) had started going to therapy after Rita Skeeter gave the arithmancer dad a panic attack followed by a depressive episode that lasted three weeks – and she went and messed him up to the point of mindless self-destruction…

"Maddie! Look!"

Without being aware of it, she's apparently phased out, and now Rosie shakes her shoulder, bringing her back down to Earth. Whatever the score is doesn't matter to Maddie, or to anyone: everyone's too busy staring at Al and James by now. One of them must have seen the Snitch because they're both rocketing towards the ground – any minute now, they'll have it – they're neck and neck, but Al has a slight advantage – they're closing in – they'll have to get it soon, any second now-

Al pulls out of the dive first, his hand clenched tightly around something gold.

"He's got it!" Amelia Jordan shouts into the magical megaphone. "Albus Potter, Slytherin's new Seeker, has beaten his brother to the Snitch! Slytherin wins!"

The stadium erupts in cheering, and Amelia rattles off the score from there, but Maddie isn't listening; something's on her radar now that needs her attention now. As Al flies around the pitch, holding up that idiotic, flying ball, the sleeve of his Quidditch robes comes down, and Maddie can see his whole arm. Even with the distance and the speed at which he's flying factored in, it's disturbingly thin. And she's done this to her best mate…

Time seems to fly by after the match; all Maddie is really aware of until dinner is that she doesn't see Al at lunch. He comes to dinner, which is good for all the Slytherins, because they feel the need to celebrate their new Seeker's triumph with a raucous party, and it's better for him because, as Maddie can see, he actually eats. He eats a lot. More than Maddie can remember seeing him eat – and he makes a huge show of eating it, too, shoveling everything in rapidly – and what he eats is, literally, everything. Not a plate on the Slytherin table goes untouched by Albus Severus Potter, especially not the enormous chocolate cake that Urquhart and Higgs stole from the kitchens, of which Al has three large slices.

Then, as abruptly as this fit of overeating started, Al leaves the Great Hall with an odd sense of purpose about him. Apparently, this escapes everyone, save Maddie and Scorpius, and across the distance between their tables, they exchange a Significant Look. Whatever Al is doing, and despite the fact that they don't know what it is, they know for certain that it's bad. She feels the worst for Scorpius at this moment; from the look on his face, she can tell that he actually thought that Al was done being so ludicrous about his food.

They wait fifteen minutes before looking at each other again; Al still isn't back yet.

They wait another fifteen and watch as everyone else begins to file out; Al is still missing. When they meet outside the Hall, Scorpius says that he'll go check the dormitory. Maddie heads for Moaning Myrtle's loo, moving like the whips of Hell are behind her. If that ghost was trying to pull a fast one on her and Rosie, there's no way she'll be able to do it when Maddie comes in and sees the truth.

Maddie's careful with the door, sneaking in quietly and looking for anything. Listening for anything. She just needs one lead, one tiny little hint that Al's here-

"Would you stop _looking_ at me like that?!"

And there it is. The voice is unmistakably Al's, and knowing how often people use this loo, he's no doubt talking to Myrtle. Although her first instinct is to run into his stall and announce her presence, Maddie hangs back and leans against the wall to listen. Maybe this will finally explain what's wrong.

"Look, Myrtle, do you want to see me?" There's a pause, and what sounds like a gasp from Myrtle. "Look at that. There – you can see _me_, are you _satisfied_?"

Myrtle whimpers, "Put it away."

"Yeah, I know, disgusting, isn't it?"

"I can see your-"

"Look where my hands are, Myrtle! Look at it! Do you believe I'm not skinny enough yet?"

"Well, you're hardly what I'd call _fat_."

"How can you look at me and _say_ that?!"

"I can see your _ribs_, Al!"

"That isn't where my hands are, Myrtle. _Look_ where my _hands_ are."

"Are you ever going to tell me why?" Myrtle sounds so oddly hurt. Not that she doesn't usually sound hurt, but this is infinitely more personal than being picked on or having things thrown at her. "You're in here twice a day, making yourself sick for at least an hour at a time-"

"Is there a bloody point in here, or are you just going to _lecture_ me?"

"Well, I think I have a right to know why you're doing this. I'm always here, anyway."

"You're just being curious. And nosy, too."

"Am I not allowed to be concerned for one of the only people in this school who's kind to me?"

"I was just screaming and cursing at you. That's hardly kind."

"Well, when you aren't making yourself sick, you've always been very…_sweet_ to me. And I like you, and I keep secrets for you, and I think that I should be able to know why you're doing this. If you want me to keep my mouth shut, anyway."

There's a pause between the two of them, and Maddie can swear that she could cut the silence with any knife or charm. She needs to be in that stall with them. This is her best mate, and it's her fault that he's here, making himself sick on purpose and (hopefully) confessing why to Moaning Myrtle of all people. But she's a Ravenclaw through and through, and, moreover, she's concerned for her best mate, and she can't go in until she knows why this is happening.

"Am I going to get an answer?" Myrtle asks softly. "Or are you just going to stare at me?"

"I can't not do it, Myrtle," Al sighs. "You have to understand that much."

"But why not?"

"Because I _can't_! I don't even understand it – it's like there's this voice in the back of my head, and all it ever says to me is, 'Keep going, don't eat that it's bad for you, hex yourself one more time and then we're done, oh, you didn't get enough up that time, we have to do it again, look at you, you're so weak, keep going and you'll be stronger, don't complain, complaining is for babies!' And I know it's sick, I know it's dangerous, I know it's completely sodding mad, I know… I know that there's probably something wrong with me-"

"But then why do you have to do it? If you know it's dangerous-"

"Because it's the _only way_. I mean, I… I'm never good enough. I've never been good enough. James is tall, and athletic, and smart, and he's good at everything, and he's just like Dad – he's a Gryffindor, he wants to be an Auror, he's the fucking family pride – and Lily. Don't even get me started on Lily. I love her, she's not a prat to me like James is, but… but she's the same way he is. Everything she does, she does it perfectly. She's thin, she's pretty, she's popular, there isn't anything wrong with her except her taste in blokes and even that's gotten better since she dumped Hargreaves… Mum and Dad always tell everyone about how brilliant James and Lily are, but they never say anything about me."

"_Al_…" For the first time in Maddie's memory, Myrtle's voice sounds protective, oddly maternal.

"And then, after last term? Over the summer hols? Myrtle, it was_wretched_. They were fighting all the time – I thought they'd cause a scene sending us off on the train – and then Rita Skeeter came in with that stupid, bloody article… and she wrote a second one! About a week after the first one, she had a second one, and she said all these things, and made all these accusations… she said my dad might've hit me, and she said that I might've been sexually abused – she accused _Slughorn_ of _molesting_ me! Said it made sense that I was fat and gay if I'd been an abuse victim. And then the _pictures_… do you have any idea what seeing that kind of rubbish is like?"

After another silence, Al concludes, "I can't go back to that, Myrtle, and I can't get that kind of publicity, and I can't disappoint my parents… I disappoint them enough by not being James or Lily."

"So I suppose killing yourself is a better option?"

Maddie didn't mean to say that. She doesn't even fully realize that she did before the door to Al's stall slams open and a pale, panicked Albus Potter comes out, staring at her. She stares at him back, arms folded across her chest, and she blinks. More times than is really necessary – and then there's something hot on her cheeks. Is she crying? He comes closer to her, and she's suddenly quite sure that she's crying.

"What are you doing here?" Al demands, in a wobbly voice.

"You were missing for half an hour," Maddie says simply. Her voice is just as shaky. "Scorpius and I were concerned. He went to your dorm, and I came here."

"How much did you hear?"

"Every word."

"Are you going to tell someone?"

"Do you have any other idea for what I should do?"

"Maddie, please, you can't tell anybody, please-"

"Al, you're hurting yourself! I can't just let you keep doing that, I-"

"It's completely fine, I promise! I know what I'm doing, I have it under control, nothing could possibly go-"

"Have you _looked_ in a _mirror_ recently?!" Getting hysterical isn't something she does often. She hopes Al's aware enough to know that. "I can see the bones in your wrists, your clothes are too big, your collarbone could probably collect water… you're _unhealthy_. What more evidence do you need?"

He sighs and looks away from her, and it doesn't take long for him to draw his wand. It takes him even less time to point it at her.

"Maddie," he says softly. "I'm so sorry."

She hears him say, "_Obliviate_," and then everything clouds over.

Maddie has no idea where she is. She blinks more times than is necessary, and then sees that it's Moaning Myrtle's loo. Why on Earth is she in here? And why on Earth does Al look so hopeful?

"Al…" she whispers. "What's going on?"

"One of your first years was in here getting sick," he explains. "You came to help, and you did, and-"

"I'm too exhausted to have that be it…"

"Rosie said you had a long day… and it's cold season. You might just be ill?" He comes over and hugs her. "Go down to the Hospital Wing and get looked at, okay?"

She nods. "Okay…"

"And go to bed early. You've been working too hard on that essay for Arithmancy."

"Okay…"

As she leaves, headed for the wing, Maddie knows that something isn't right here.

But, for the life of her, she can't think of what it is.

She knows that she knew it once.

But she can't seem to finger it anymore.


	4. Scorpius, James

Under most normal circumstances, Scorpius doesn't mind the holidays, any of them, and Christmas is easily his favorite. Christmas is when Grandmother comes home from her travels across the world, with photographs, and souvenirs, and stories about interesting practices amongst Indian Wizards, or about the strange and beautiful beliefs of certain African Wizards, or about how uncivilized American Wizards are. Christmas is when Mother and Father are at their closest, and when they pretend that their marriage wasn't arranged – and, more importantly, it's when they have absolutely nothing to say about Al's parents, since they got over saying things about Al after meeting him at the platform before fourth year. Christmas is when Minister Shacklebolt and Al's Uncle Percy leave Grandfather alone, which means that the old man is generally in a good mood, even when he gets drunk on Christmas Eve and starts referring to Al as, "that corrupting Potter boy," or "that negative influence in your dormitory," or "that little surprise" – or, at the worst of it, he gets drunk and demands to know why Father allows Scorpius to continue seeing Al at all. Scorpius used to take issue with these nicknames and accusations, until Father taught him that Firewhiskey generally makes people say stupid things, and reminded him that Grandfather is from a generation that doesn't fully understand things that seem so simple to Scorpius.

This year's Christmas hols, though, he can't seem to enjoy. Everything is as it should be – Mother has had the House Elves make all the traditional Christmas food, as well as a few of Scorpius's favorite dishes; right when he got home, Father slipped him an early Christmas present, a new Errala Kern book on the "magic gene" theory; Grandmother was home early, and Grandfather was in a better mood than usually – but nothing feels _right_. He knows why this is the case, too: all he can think about is Al. Usually, this would be a good thing – he could think about Al's smile, or Al's laugh, or the adorable way that Al insisted on having all his books alphabetized by author, title, and color of the cover – but, this year, thinking about Al just upsets him. How can it not? After all, Al's not here for Scorpius to protect; he's alone in his parents' house, with his stupid prat of a brother, who spends every waking moment picking on him. Merlin only knows how he's holding up. Given how things have been recently, it's probably badly, and there's no doubt in Scorpius's mind that he isn't eating enough, and he's bound to be ill – he looked so pale, and peaky, and vaguely green on the platform that Scorpius didn't want to let him go.

He had to, though. Both of them had families to go home to, which meant letting Al go, and then not seeing him until January 2nd. The thought alone was murder, and, after the night before he had to watch Al leave, Scorpius is quite sure that thinking on Al anymore might kill him. Merlin knows it's certainly not doing his nerves any good – he's already gotten jumpy over being approached by one of grandfather's albino peacocks, and he's been surrounded by the things since his birth – and he's joined Al in hardly eating now as well. The only difference between the two instances, though, is simply that Scorpius is too sick at heart to eat, whereas, for whatever reason, Al just won't do it. And now that he's alone in the clutches of Bloody James, there's no doubt that things will only get worse.

That last night together, though – Scorpius doesn't want to think about it, and, yet, he just can't help himself. He'd come back to the dormitory from yet another fruitless session of, "What the Hell is wrong with Al?" with Maddie, Rosie, Lily, Tommy, and Hugo, and, for nearly half an hour, he'd been alone. Gavin, Brody, and Damien were all off giving various manners of "farewells" to their various girlfriends, and no one knew where Al was. He'd briefly made an appearance at dinner, he'd eaten three carrots, and then he'd disappeared. All throughout the meeting, Maddie kept mentioning that she _knew_ where he was and what he was doing, but, for whatever reason, she couldn't remember it. So much for being Ravenclaw in their little collective who actually lived up to the expectations of her House. (Honestly, it isn't that Scorpius doesn't like Tommy Davies, and it's certainly not that he can picture Tommy in any House besides Ravenclaw, but the simple fact of the matter is that, as far as Ravenclaws go, Tommy is rather at the shallow end of their gene pool. He isn't particularly bright, nor is he particularly subtle, especially not when flirting with Al, and, as far as memory goes, Scorpius has seen sieves hold more in them than Tommy's brain.)

Finally, Al came in, distinctly later than usual and trying to act as though there was nothing different, nothing that wouldn't happen any other night. He looked a little peaky – pale, sleepless, and far too thin, though that was becoming an increasingly normal part of life – but, more importantly, he looked so _sad_ that Scorpius couldn't just leave him be. Never mind that he rather seemed to want solitude, with how he sat quietly on his bed, reading one of his beat-up Muggle science fiction novels and only answering questions from Scorpius with as insubstantial of a reply as he could manage. "Monosyllabic" was the word of the night, or so it looked, and Scorpius was determined to reverse this. There wasn't any way he could just go off for Christmas hols without a little bit of quality, Al and Scorpius time, and, even though Al was trying to ignore him, he knew that his boyfriend felt the same.

So he joined Al on his bed, and he went about reclining and otherwise attempting to attract the boy's attention; for all appearances, it was entirely focused on the bloody book. Scorpius had to try other methods, then. He nuzzled Al's delicate neck; he put a hand on Al's thigh, trying to ignore the fact that his hand covered almost half of it; he rubbed his own knee against one of Al's dangerously jutting ones – he even kissed Al's sharp, protruding collarbone, and Al would still not be moved. Finally, Scorpius had to resort to drastic measures. Being as careful with the book as he could, he took it away; to silence Al's whining protest, he kissed his boyfriend quite properly – open-mouthed and on the lips. Much to his pleasant surprise, Al kissed him back, finally giving him proper acknowledgement. Now that they were properly sending each other off, the kiss intensified quickly and Al, who was surprisingly exhausted and even tasted of the effort he was putting into making this a perfect farewell, leaned back first, pulling Scorpius with him onto the mattress. Being careful with his skinny boyfriend, Scorpius straddled Al's hips, to make kissing him horizontally that much easier; for once in far too long, things seemed like they were going the way they used to, the way that made Scorpius fall in love.

Then he went and stuck his hand underneath Al's shirt.

It seemed harmless, at the time! He hadn't meant for things to go so wrong! They were already snogging – and having a very bloody good snog, for that matter and for the first time in far too long – so why shouldn't he have thought to touch his boyfriend? Every other couple was allowed to be all over each other, so why couldn't he just touch Al? Apparently, Scorpius had done something wrong though, because he'd barely had time to notice how sharp Al's hipbones were before he felt Al's legs kicking and then found himself on the floor, a sharp pain shooting up from his arse.

"Al!" he shouted, without thinking. "What the Hell was that for?"

"Don't touch me!" came the shrieking reply.

When Scorpius looked up, his initial anger immediately dissipated: Al looked absolutely petrified, as if a Dementor had entered the room without them noticing; all the color had drained from his face, he'd backed up against his headboard and pulled his knees up to his chest, and Scorpius had to protect him. Come Hell or Hungarian Horntails, no matter what it took, he _had_ to protect his Al. Whatever was wrong, he had to put it right, or else what kind of boyfriend was he? Desperately, he pulled himself up off the floor and got back onto Al's bed. Out of some kind of respect, he kept a little distance, but he didn't think that reaching out to stroke Al's (thinning, now that he noticed it) hair; Al slapped his hand away.

"_Al_…" he begged.

"Don't _touch_ me!" The shrieking was gone now, replaced with something far more effective: whimpering. His eyes were misting over with tears, and he looked so _helpless_. "Please, Scorpius, just… I can't tonight, alright? Don't touch me."

"Al, what's wrong? Let me know and I'll-"

"There's nothing _wrong_! Merlin's pants, first Maddie, now you – why does something always have to be _wrong_?!"

"Just tell me and I'll fix it-"

"You can't fix what isn't wrong, Scorpius!"

"Something _is_ wrong-"

"No it's not! I just can't tonight, and that doesn't mean anything!"

Scorpius reached out to touch Al's face, but it only earned him another slap on the hand and the return of the shrieking: "_Don't touch me_!"

He soon found himself on the floor again, and, when he looked up, Al's curtains were closed. Even though they sat in the same compartment on the train the next day, Al barely agreed to have Scorpius's arm around his shoulders, and Scorpius had to fight to get a goodbye kiss out of him. Never before has it been more obvious that something's wrong with him.

Scorpius just wishes that Al would tell him what, because all he has are symptoms, and not a one of them makes sense.

James Sirius Potter is quite aware of his many reputations, please and thank you, and the simple fact of the matter is that most of them are quite undeserved. The one about him being Slughorn's pet, for example, just comes from the fact that he gets good marks in Potions, and the one about him being McGonagall's pet is just that his best mate, Jeremy Smith, has been peeved since James made Prefect in their fifth year. Never mind that, if McGonagall had thought Jerm Prefect material, he would've made it instead of James, and further never mind that Jerm smarms up to McGonagall far more than James ever has; James has the badge, so, clearly, he's McGonagall's pet. The popular opinion that says that he's a brilliant snog is completely true, but he'd suffer through every single misconception just to clear up one: the one that says that he's an arrogant toerag.

Honestly. If he could make everyone and their gran's puppy stop thinking of him as some arch-villain – the stuck-up, loudmouth Gryffindor Prefect with the heart of frozen iron – then everything in his life would be perfect. More importantly, though, he needs to make Al and Lily believe that he's not out to get them, like _that's_ ever going to happen. They seem to think that everything he does is meant to cause him pain, when, really, he just wants to protect them. They're Harry Potter's kids, for Merlin's sake; there's too much out there that wants to make them miserable, or make their lives difficult, or publicize them beyond all belief, for better or for worse – and then there's Rita Skeeter, who can do all three at once without putting her mind to it and without hardly lifting a finger. Her series of _Witch Weekly_ articles about Al last summer weren't the first time she's been mucking around in family matters – and, even though Al seems perfectly content to forget this fact, James has been on the receiving end of Skeeter's Quik Quotes Quill before. "James Potter: Prefecting Playboy" – honestly! Al thought that the first article about his expanding arse had been bad! At least that Skeeter bitch didn't accuse _him_ of sleeping around with half of Hogwarts, including Professor Vector.

Of course, Al refuses to acknowledge this. He never acknowledges things like this. They inconvenience his worldview – wherein he's the poor, pitiable victim who needs hugs, and loves, and constant bloody sympathy – and, as such, he's incapable of admitting that his older brother isn't a monster. Lily's only slightly better than he is for the sheer virtue of keeping him and James from ever physically going at one another. Naturally, though, James wouldn't go at Al even if the little prat particularly deserved it. There's just no joy in winning when victory gets handed to you. If you're going to win, you have to work for it, or it's like having Chocolate Frogs every day: it gets old, it's not exciting anymore, and it just feels so pointless you have to wonder why you bothered with it at all.

It's because of that rule that James has always been perplexed by, and, as a consequence, worried about, his little brother. In addition to refusing to accept that James isn't some vicious scoundrel who's only out to make him miserable, Al is just so bloody _weird_ about winning, or doing well at all, for that matter. Whenever he used to win at games, or win in arguments because Mum almost always takes his side, or win anything, he never got excited about it. James always used to rub it in Al and Lily's faces when he won, and Lily can still be a right little snot about being right and doing well, but Al's just so sedated about it. It's more like he's relieved that he didn't lose. He's the same way about getting good marks on tests and essays; anytime James has had to deal with him after he's gotten his usual set of praise-worth marks, he's just been thankful that he didn't do badly. He barely responded when James told him, "Nice game" after their match against each other. And he's always been like that. It's just not right.

What also isn't right is how he's keeping everyone waiting on Christmas Day. It's almost noon and he's still in bed. He knows that no one's allowed to open any gifts until everyone's downstairs, and he knows that his siblings are actually interested in matters like whether or not they got a new broomstick servicing kit (James) or the new Lysander Leviosa disc, and he still hasn't dragged himself out of bed yet. Mum and Dad are even up, and they were both up late last night – Dad and Uncle Ron got an emergency call out to Staffordshire, on suspicion of Dark activity, and it even wound up being a false alarm; and Mum had to go over to the Burrow to help Gran with something or other related to Christmas supper. Al went to bed early. _Al_ was in bed before ten o'clock, before James and Lily even considered turning in, and _he _got out of doing too much work because Mum thinks he's ill, so there's no bloody reason for him to be in bed.

To be honest, James is sick of this. He doesn't care how everyone else feels; he wants to have his proper Christmas, and Al is getting in the way of that. Lily's taken to reading one of her utterly ridiculous Elizabeth Q. Amortine novels with the muscular wizards and well-endowed witches on the cover, and Mum and Dad are both nursing cups of tea. James wishes he had a Snitch to play with or something, but, as it stands, all he has is a sugar quill, which he's nearly done with. And which he's just plain lucky to have, with how Al's been about sweets, the past few months. Mid-July, he threw out every last sweet in the house, even the ones that weren't his, and James hasn't seen him go near anything sugary since then. It's probably some bloody miracle that he hasn't come and pitched James's box of sugar quills yet, so James is enjoying them while he can.

"James," Dad sighs, right as James finishes his quill, "will you go get your brother out of bed?"

"I should go," Lily snaps, right as James gets to his feet. "He'll listen to me."

"You're too nice to him, Lils," James huffs. "He knows he can manipulate you, so you'll be in there twenty minutes and he still won't come out."

"That's not true! I can be firm with him!"

"Yeah, you say that now. Tell me that again when he pulls out that whimpering, wounded unicorn act-"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on, he uses it on you all the time. You try to make him do something, and he starts pouting, and making big, sad eyes, and acting like he's going to _cry_-"

"He does not!"

"James, Lily," Mum interjects, giving both of them a very stern look. "Stop arguing and one of you go get your brother out of bed."

"I'm already up," James points out.

Without even waiting to see Lily's face, James heads up for Al's room. He's completely unsurprised when he gets there and sees what Al's up to: sleeping. So much for him having a Hufflepuff work ethic like everyone likes to say. No self-respecting Hufflepuff would sleep until noon, let alone past it, as Al's done here. He's even cocooned him sheets, which is just ridiculous, given their parents. Dad's suffered every inconvenience imaginable. Mum plays in the worst conditions imaginable. Their uncles, Gran, and Grandpa can tolerate extremes, James can hold his own against the elements and so can Lily – and Al has himself wrapped up in a comforter, and no doubt a mountain of sheets and blankets underneath it, and he's in a heated house. _Ridiculous_.

"C'mon, Al," James sighs loudly, coming fully into the room. "'S Christmas. Time for gifts."

All he gets is an indistinct whine as Al rolls onto his side.

"Come _on_, Al," James says again. "It's noon already and everyone's waiting for you."

Al whines again and adjusts his covers.

"This isn't_funny_, Al." James huffs as he strides over to the bed, hands on his hips, just like Gran. "Lily and I would _like_ to have a proper Christmas, you know. And we're not allowed to 'til you get up."

"Go 'way," Al groans, rolling onto his other side.

"No. It's noon. Time to get out of bed."

"'m _tired_."

"So? It's Christmas."

"Tell Mum and Dad to open gifts without me."

"Because Mum will honestly let us do that." Rolling his eyes, James goes to the other side of the bed. "Come on, you lazy prat. Up. Don't make me use magic to get you out of here."

"Leave me _alone_, y'pillock," he whines, rolling over again. "'m _sick_."

"That sympathy trick isn't going to work on me, Al. Get up."

"'m _sore_."

"And _I'm_going to use magic to get you out of here if you don't come yourself."

"Go _away_!"

"You've got 'til three. One."

"Leave me _alone_."

"_Two_."

"_James_!"

"Three!"

James has never been one for making empty threats. Apparently, parents like to do it, hoping that fear will be enough to keep their kids in line, but he has no use for beating around the bush. As such, he doesn't wait to take out his wand and point it right at Al's sheets. Calling out an, "_Accio_," he Summons the comforter off Al's bed. Of course there are more blankets than Al needs underneath, and James Summons those off too, leaving Al in his pyjama bottoms and one of his sweaters from Gran. …A sweater? _Honestly_? Where does he think they are, Antarctica? Well, he's already curling up from cold, so maybe taking it would qualify as cruel, but, then again, he's behaving like a little prat. And, when children misbehave, children get punished. Al's not of age just yet, and his behavior isn't that of an adult. Ergo, Al must be punished. He whines loudly when James Summons off the sweater, and being without it makes him curl up even more. Although he genuinely doesn't want to keep going, James Summons off Al's pyjama bottoms next, adding them on to the growing pile of his stuff; he still won't budge. Rolling his eyes at just how stupid this all is, James takes drastic measures and Summons off Al's t-shirt.

And then, he has to stop. He catches the shirt by virtue of reflex alone. He's not at all surprised by how Al's pale skin stands out in sharp contrast against his dark green sheets and dark green short pants; Al's always been pale, like Uncle Percy, and neither of them get out that much, so the matching shades of their skin make sense. What _is_ surprising though is how Al looks. No wonder everyone's been thinking that he's ill: he's so skinny that he has to have_something_. His elbows are bony, and his knees stick out, and James can tell that his legs are only touching when they do because he's forcing them together. It's all James can do to keep from getting sick when he notices Al's ribs, and then he has to go and sit up; his face is, if anything, even worse than the rest of his body. Even though he's been sleeping, his eyes look like he's been up all night, and his cheeks are sunken in. James has seen kids in the Hospital Wing look better than Al does, and the pictures of the prat when he had Dragon Pox at eight look healthier; wordlessly, James flings the shirt back at him.

"What's _that_ for?!" he groans.

"Put your shirt back on," James tells him, running for the door.

"Don't bloody give me _orders_-"

"Mum!"

It doesn't take long for the whole family to be in Al's room, with Dad looking him over, peering down his throat and checking his temperature and all that rubbish. Mum and Lily look sick to death, fretting over Al and asking what they can get him. And all Al's really doing is insisting that he just has a cold and he doesn't need a trip to Saint Mungo's.

And James just hangs back by Al's bedroom door, watching the scene between the other four unfold. He sees what happens, and he vaguely hears everyone's words, but he has an almost inhuman detachment from everything that's going on. All he can think about is how thin Al's gotten. Of course, he _knew_ that Al lost weight; no one got to do anything without hearing about that, especially not James, who also got the threat of being taken on by Slytherin's new star Seeker – but, for Merlin's sake, he thought Al _stopped_. He should've stopped; he's downright skeletal by now. He made a big scene at Halloween about how he was stopping, and now, with a little make-up or some charm-work, he could pass for an Inferius. James is wracking his brain to remember when this happened, but all he's coming up with is a memory from summer. It isn't even a distinct one, just the sound of his own voice and all the times that he taunted Al.

He knows Al's sensitive – he knew it over the summer. He knew, or should've known, what mocking him would do.

He's done this to his brother. And he's a sodding Gryffindor.


End file.
